Kei's Gift

by Ann Somerville

  Kei and the others leaders did as the rather short-tempered man bid them. His disgust with them was almost visible. He walked around them, tut-tutting at their filthy state.

  “Right, listen carefully. You’ll be placed with our finest families in their service until this Darshian affair is finished—you had better appreciate the honour. During this time, you’ll be taught our language, our law and our religion. You will follow the orders of your hosts and of the Prijian authority without question, or there will be severe penalties. Do you understand this?” The murmur of assent, curiously, only increased his disgust. “Very well.” He turned and gave one of his soldiers an order, and the man left the room at a run. “Straighten up, you damn heathens. You are about to receive a visit from Her Serenity.”

  There wasn’t really a lot to be done except stand a little taller, and make sure trousers and shirts were properly laced. Mekus paced impatiently, but then a short blast sounded on a horn outside the room. The soldiers within, as Mekus himself, stood rigidly to attention, and, as the advance guard entered the room, Mekus hissed, “Kneel, you disrespectful fools.”

  The Darshianese obeyed, but not fast enough. Two guards pushed those who were too slow to their knees, moments before the tiny woman Kei had seen earlier, swept into the room.

  “Your highness,” Mekus said, bowing low. She held out a languid hand to him, but her eyes were on the Darshianese. She said something Kei didn’t catch and then walked closer to them.

  Kei felt like an urs beast at market, the way those cold green eyes looked at him and the others. He sensed...curiosity, and a good deal of disdain. None of the loathing he associated with high-ranking Prijians. No fear, naturally. This woman was used to creating fear in others, not experiencing it.

  She took her time, walking through the kneeling ranks of hostages without speaking to, or touching them, Mekus following obsequiously behind her. She came back to the front of the group and stood in front of Kei. “Stand up,” Mekus snapped.

  “What is your name, boy?” she asked in Prijian.

  ‘Boy’—that was rich coming from a woman barely out of childhood herself. “Kei, your highness.”

  She was surprised he responded without waiting for Mekus to translate. “You speak our language? Already?”

  “Only a little,” he said, which was true. “Some words.”

  She made a rapid comment to Mekus he certainly didn’t understand. She dismissed him from her attention, and one of the soldiers pushed him back to his knees. How polite.

  She had nothing more to say to them—inspecting her livestock, not her new subjects—and left, Mekus bowing low until she left. Then he stood straight and glared at them. “All right, you’ll be taken to a compound until we find places for you. Follow the sergeant and bear in mind my warning. Get on your feet!”

  The hostages scrambled up, confused as Kei by this endless, pointless up and down, and trailed after the sergeant Mekus had indicated. “You, what is it, Kei? Not you. You’ve already been placed.”

  “My lord?”

  Mekus ignored him and turned to one of the soldiers. “Bring him. I need to write a note to his new master.”

  And who in hells is that? Kei already didn’t like the sound of this. He was no man’s servant—and he wasn’t anyone’s slave either, Gonji’s ‘emissaries’ be damned.

  ~~~~~~~~

  Arman took the time to take off his ceremonial armour, and to wash his face and hands before he rode his borrowed jesig to his father’s house. It had been months—no, more like nearly a year since he had made this journey. He and his father had no reason to attend each other’s houses. They nodded at each other at the monthly celebration of the Goddess Punus, and their servants carried messages between them. It wasn’t necessary to actually speak to his father, which was how they both liked it. Today, he was not coming to visit his parent either, but he expected that he would see him.

  He asked the footman if his esteemed father could spare his humble son a few moments, hoping this would not be the case, but word came for Arman to attend his parent in the library. His father would have watched from the senatorial gallery, so it was hardly needed to tell him that his son had returned.

  His father was at his desk, and didn’t stand. “Ah, Arman. Returning covered in glory, once more.”

  “A joint effort, father. I trust the senators were pleased with our reports.”

  “They were acceptable to all, as I’m sure Her Serenity has already told you. Are you just here to receive my personal gratitude?”

  “No, father. I came to see Tir Mari.”

  “Mari? Whatever for?” His father wasn’t stupid, whatever his faults, and laid his pen down as he worked it out. “Oh blessed gods. Surely not Loke.” Loke was one of the few things Arman and his father had had a mutual concern for. One more tie broken.

  “Yes, I regret it is so.”

  “She’ll take this hard. How did it happen?”

  “An enemy attack to the rear. We lost six people, him included.”

  His father glared at him. “You should never have taken the boy on the campaign. It was a thoughtless act, an unnecessary risk.”

  “It was at his own insistence, father,” Arman said, his throat tight with grief and anger. “I’m aware of my fault. None, I assure you, is more conscious of it, or has a greater regret.”

  “None save Tir Mari,” his father said with heavy sarcasm. “She’s in the garden. Bring her in when...when you’ve done. She’ll need comforting.”

  “Of course.” It was a source of constant amazement that his father, always so cold and judgemental towards him, had an endless source of patience and affection for Mari and her son. Arman had briefly suspected there was more than friendship involved, but it seemed his father simply honoured Mari and Loke for who they were, and their family’s past relationship with him. Would that the man would be so concerned for those actually related to him. “If she needs anything—”

  “Then I will provide it. Do you think I am so doddering or so poor that the father needs the son to pay his way? Go do your duty, and then say a prayer for the poor child’s spirit. He was the saving of you—you owe him a great deal.”

  Arman was surprised his father had even noticed. “I don’t need my father to tell me that.”

  “You grow impertinent.” His father stood now, a little red in the face. “You’re only a soldier, and not my heir. You will show me respect due my rank or I shall have it taught to you.”

  Arman bowed low. “Apologies. I misspoke. May I have your permission to withdraw?”

  “I already told you to leave, you arrogant brat. Go and find the woman whose child you murdered.”

  Arman took a step forward, and drew a breath. “Loke,” he said through gritted teeth, “was murdered by the Darshianese. Do not put that lie about, father, or we shall be even more at odds, and I don’t think you want that. You’re a senator, but I’m Her Serenity’s general and in good favour with her. She won’t appreciate your slandering me, or her army.”

  His father glared. “You are in good favour now, but the favours of women are fickle things.”

  “As are those of fathers, it seems,” he snapped, then turned smartly on his heel and walked out. He would hear about this again. Perhaps from Kita, who was fond of pretending a maternal role with her senior people, and liked to beard them over personal matters. His father was not above using his own favoured position to have Her Serenity made a dig at his aggravating son if it suited him.

  Outside the library, Arman forced himself to calm down. He hadn’t come here to fight with the old bastard. He drew the wallet out of his breast pocket—he had kept it close by him for weeks now, but it was time it found its proper home. But he wasn’t looking forward to performing this last duty for his friend.

  ~~~~~~~~

  Kei was nearing the point that if another person poked him in the back to make him move faster, or shouted at him in Prijian as if speaking loudly somehow made them easier to underst
and, or wrinkled their nose in disgust at his clothes, he’d punch them. He wasn’t prone to violence and the last time he’d hit someone in anger had been when he was ten—and then Urki had pounded him into the dirt—but by the gods he’d give it a go.

  “Touch me again and I’ll bite you,” he muttered in response to yet another incomprehensible order accompanied by a shove in the back, but because the escort didn’t speak Darshianese, they ignored him. Again. He could have been a statue being shipped to a new owner for all the attention they gave to him. The pace at which they marched him along made no concessions at all to his rapidly declining ability to keep up.

  Utuk was a city of stone and gardens, pretty waterfalls, and apparently wealthy, happy citizens. But here and there, Kei sensed an undercurrent of violence and greed. The image of a placid, contented populace the city so obviously strove to achieve, was little more than that—an image.

  It was, for the moment, none of his concern. All he could do was go to where he was prodded, try to work out from emotions and expressions what the hells they wanted him to do, and not panic about where he was being taken.

  Eventually this was revealed when they came to a grand house in what seemed to be the better part of the city. One of the soldiers knocked for admittance and handed over the note Kei had seen Mekus give him—the one with instructions for Kei’s disposal, he assumed. After a few minutes, the footman who’d answered the door returned, and Kei was taken inside.

  Despite his weariness and his anxiety, his natural curiosity was aroused. The buildings here were very different from those in Darshek, with sparser furnishings and more severe in style. These contrasted with the rich, ornate decoration of doorways and floors, with mosaics and carvings depicting mainly scenes from the sea. The quality was high, and, he guessed, expensive. He wasn’t being given in charge to a pauper, for sure.

  He was brought out to a cloistered area, and made to stand in a courtyard. Shortly afterwards, an elaborately coiffed, breathtakingly beautiful woman in the middle stages of pregnancy, and dressed in a fine yellow gown and delicate sandals, came out to meet them. A man of somewhat less attractiveness, carrying a long ornate black cane like a symbol of office, accompanied her. Her husband? His servant? Kei couldn’t tell at first, but the way the soldiers deferred to the woman, and the man bowed to her, made the situation clear. Was he going to be a lady’s servant?

  She came over to look at him, giving him much the same kind of impersonal scrutiny the sovereign had, and with similar disdain. He also sensed malice and not a little amusement, though at what, he had no idea. “What is your name?”

  The question had been asked of him in Prijian so often, he could answer it easily, but when he failed to understand her next remark, she rolled her eyes in disgust, and spoke to her servant. “My mistress wants to know if you know why you are here.”

  “No, my lord.”

  The servant turned and translated for her. She smiled, not a particularly pleasant sight, and then waved her hands at the soldiers in clear dismissal. They saluted and the footman led them away, leaving Kei subject to the uncomfortable scrutiny of his new mistress. She walked around him for a few moments, clearly assessing him, and then snapped something at her servant, who bowed as she left, then turned to Kei. “Come with me.”

  Kei followed the man into the house, along more richly decorated halls, and then into some kind of laundry or washroom. “You will clean yourself and change your clothing. You can wash your present clothing here too and hang them on that line.”

  “My lord, may I ask your name?”

  “My name is Mykis, but you will call me ‘sir’, boy.” He tapped his cane against the floor for emphasis.

  “Yes, sir. What will I be doing here? Will I be serving your mistress?”

  Mykis gave him an evil looking smile, pleased malice rolling off him, his small eyes squinting at some private joke. “No, you’ll be serving the master. Now be quick about cleaning yourself. My mistress hates dirt and smell, and I run a clean household. I won’t let you filthy Darshianese change that.”

  Yes, because of course we all live in mud wallows and eat shit.

  The man watched him clean himself, indicating he could use the harsh clothes soap on his own body. Kei didn’t care about the quality of the soap—he was just glad to be clean again. His new clothes still offended Mykis, but when the dirty ones were hung out to the man’s satisfaction, he ordered Kei to follow him again, this time taken to a kitchen nearly the size of Kei’s whole house. Several servants preparing a meal stared at him in frank curiosity. He smiled back, wanting to appear friendly, but no one responded. Mykis shouted something at them in Prijian. “You, listen here. Every servant in this household is your senior, and you will obey every one of them as if my mistress or I had made the order ourselves. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, my...sir. What are my duties?”

  To his shock, Mykis came up to him and slapped his face. “Lesson one, boy. Do not speak until spoken to, and do not ask questions until I give you leave. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” Kei stared straight ahead, unable to believe the man had struck him for such a trivial mistake. He’d clearly waited until he had an audience too. A show-off and a bully, by the look of it.

  “Good. You’ll be taking the place of my master’s manservant whom he recently lost. You will bring his meals, do his laundry, prepare his baths and his rooms. When you are not doing that, you will do as you’re directed by me or anyone else here.”

  “Yes, sir.” Kei bit his tongue. He’d been about to ask where he could put his pack and where he would sleep, but that would get him hit again.

  “Now wait here until my master returns. Don’t touch anything.”

  “No, sir.”

  He was forced to sit like a naughty child while the cook and her assistants giggled and stared and made not entirely incomprehensible comments about him, his morals, his body and his likely habits. He gritted his teeth and pretended he didn’t follow any of it. What kind of people were these, to treat others with such lack of respect? Or was it only hostages made into slaves they treated this way?

  He waited for an hour or more on the hard stool, trying hard to stay awake. What was happening to the others? Would he see them again? And who was this man, and this family?

  Mykis returned and snapped out an order to the cook’s assistants, who bustled about to obey. It soon became clear they were preparing a tray of food, and when Mykis ordered Kei to pick it up, he guessed he was about to meet his new master.

  He took a breath, and got ready for this new challenge.

  Chapter : Utuk 3

  Arman had a headache that was close to making him stop and bang his head on the ground for relief. He’d expected the meeting with Mari to go badly. He’d expected her tears. He hadn’t expected her to thank him for his kindness to Loke, or her proud, silent grief which was more of a reproach than if she had blamed him, as his father had done, for Loke’s death. Of course, his esteemed father more than made up for the lack once Arman had returned indoors, throwing Mayl’s pregnancy into the mix and being as thoroughly disagreeable and unpleasant as Arman remembered him. Arman sometimes wondered if he was a bastard too, since his father had so little interest in him. But no, the dynastic meddlings were proof his father was trying to preserve the bloodline, even if he couldn’t give a damn through whose veins the blood flowed.

  Gods. Mari had broken his heart, but he had no solace at all to offer her, just a lock of hair and the note. He wished she had railed or wept wildly—anything—but her dignity only emphasised the depth of her pain. There was nothing at all he could do for her, not when he could do nothing for himself.

  His escort kept well back from him, sensing his foul temper, he supposed, but one of his men took his reins smartly enough when they reached his house, and the other two took up position as usual by the door. “Welcome home, Sei Arman,” his footman said as he strode in.

  Arman ignored the pleasantry. “Hav
e someone bring me something to eat and some wine,” he snapped as he walked down the hall, wanting to get away from people for the next...well, year, would be his preference, but hours would probably be all he would get. “And I want a bath in an hour.”

  “Yes, Sei,” the man said to his back.

  Arman ignored him, continuing to his rooms. He didn’t bother with the farce of seeking Mayl’s welcome, or being ‘surprised’ at her news, which his father had broken with all the grace Arman had come to expect from the old bastard. In his own house, he refused to play meaningless games. Tomorrow, he would visit Karus and hope to be put in a better temper. For now, he wasn’t fit company for himself or anyone else.

  He threw his satchel of papers onto his desk and examined the notes and invitations left there in his absence. There was nothing that demanded his attention, and even if there had been, he couldn’t have summoned the energy to care. He’d begun to strip when he heard a knock and curtly told the servant to leave the tray on the table.

  “Sei Arman—”

  He turned. “What?” Then he stared at the newcomers. “What in six hells is that doing in my room?”

  His steward bowed. “By my mistress’s order, Sei Arman, this is your new manservant.”

  “I think not. Get him out of here, and tell me where I can find my wife.”

  He stalked angrily through the house in search of her, wondering what idiotic game Mayl was playing now, and how she even knew Loke was dead. How dare she, how damn well dare she?

  She was in her bedroom, one of her maids primping her. He noted the bump and how she had dressed to emphasise it—was he supposed to be impressed? “What do you mean by sending that Darshianese filth to me? Have you lost what is left of your senses?”

  “Welcome home, husband,” she said coolly, dismissing her maid with a wave of her hand. “I rejoice in your safe return.”